


Polyjuice + Daddy's Unicorn

by Ruslan Stetson Durai (RumpelstiltskinIX)



Series: Drarryland 2019 [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Comedy, Drarryland: A Drarry Game/Fest, Gen, M/M, Unrequited Lust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-20
Updated: 2019-03-20
Packaged: 2019-11-26 06:17:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18176942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RumpelstiltskinIX/pseuds/Ruslan%20Stetson%20Durai
Summary: Prompt fill for Drarryland.Old (generations-old!) habits die hard, and that's how Potter ropes Draco into warming his seat for a day.





	Polyjuice + Daddy's Unicorn

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, KristinaBird, for beta-ing and that fantastic suggestion about the sperm count!

Of all the bloody things to get Draco in trouble! It was not the incriminating gallery of dark artifacts (some, if not most of them stolen in one form or another). It was not the dubiously legal potions with even more shakily legal reagents within. It wasn’t even the taxidermy unicorn head his father had arranged to be sent to him for his birthday!

No. It was his bloody alchemy license expiring. Of all the things to put him in hot water, it was _that_. He supposed it made ‘sense,’ as much as it made sense to scorn an entire segment of the Wizarding population that had _kept them all alive_ through the centuries! Where were those precious _muggleborns_ when witches were being burned at the stake?

Flaring his nostrils, Draco snapped his fingers. A house elf came running and charmed away the ashes of the Ministry Howler. A Howler, for an expired alchemy license! The nerve. Now all his neighbors knew... and his mother, too. He studied his reflection in the window, pursing his lips. Was this not typically handled with a fine? The actual citation had demanded he go in to the _Aurors_ , of all places. Merlin’s beard. Were they going to try and pin his father’s crimes on him?

There was only one way to find out.

***

He looked his best as he stepped into the dubiously maintained lift. Though he kept his hair short, Draco was starting to resemble his father more with every passing day. Not in the face, so much – he had always had his mother’s features there. Not as the father he had been raised by, either – he hardly remembered that man. No. Draco was growing the shadows and receding hairline of a man 27 years his senior. Father might be the one sitting in Azkaban, but Draco’s prison remained the ivory walls that he had grown up and almost died in.

He had no qualms with the Dark Lord... truly. The world the Dark Lord had dreaded was just beginning to come into full realization. Muggleborns as students, stealing prestige and glamor that true Wizarding families had built up and depended on for eons. Purebloods were being ticketed over _license expirations_! The Dark Lord, no doubt, was rolling in his grave.

The lift shook, jolted again, and dinged. The doors rumbled, creaked, and pulled open the way Draco’s great great grandfather achingly opened his mouth to fumble in his false teeth.

Warily, he stepped out. The doors slammed shut on his heel, and he leapt forward with a bitten back curse. He cast a sneering look over his shoulder before proceeding forward.

“Malfoy.”

Not ‘Mr. Malfoy,’ as most half-bloods with an ounce of self-preservation had addressed him from an early age. Plain, flat, unimpressed ‘ _Malfoy’_.

“Potter,” Draco addressed him with a sour smile.

Of course it would be Potter bringing him in on _this._

Potter stood from his desk, clad in no identifiable uniform. The Aurors had been a hodgepodge mess since Scrimgeor took over. No class.

“Is this about the ticket?” Draco asked, skeptically.

“Come on,” Potter said instead, breezing past him to the lift.

Frowning, Draco followed. If this was an arrest, it certainly was not following protocol...

Potter led them out of the Ministry, and to a quaint little watering hole run by some halfblood and her muggleborn husband. It had been vandalized a fair few times, and Draco _might have_ been involved once. They were the only customers.

“Two butterbeers,” Potter said, leaning on the corner of the bar. “His treat.”

“Times hard, Potter?” Draco mocked, and snapped a galleon down on the bar.

Potter slid into the barstool nearest to him, crossing his arms on the bar.

“Times _are_ hard,” Potter answered dryly. “Thought you might want a chance to make them a little better.”

“By sending a Howler about a _citation_?” Draco snapped.

Potter looked back, unmoved.

“It got you here, didn’t it?”

He acted so... guileless. Draco pursed his lips and let a skeptical breath out his nose.

“What do you want,” Draco deadpanned.

Potter reached into his robes and pulled out a vial.

“You’re sneaky,” he said. “Polyjuice as me and pretend to do some paperwork for the day.”

Draco furrowed his brow and sneered. Polyjuice as a _slob_?

“And I’ll even write off the stuffed unicorn head.”

Draco blanched.

“ _Fine._ ”

***

He really meant ‘pretend’. The second Draco started reading any of the paperwork, a secretary scurried over and asked if anything was amiss.

Weasley kept throwing snotty, withering looks his way, like he knew. Draco smirked right back and itched his – well, Potter’s – crotch.

Wow. He was endowed. _Really_ endowed. When Weasley got called off to pretend to be useful elsewhere, Draco looked around. Where was the bathroom? Not that he wanted to get a look or anything, but... he kind of had to urinate? Okay, he didn’t have to urinate at all.

He didn’t know where the Auror bathroom was, so he took the lift to the on-site St. Mungo’s ward. He’d been there a couple times since Crabbe died, first to deliver the news to his aunt, and then again since she didn’t seem to have anyone else.

He started heading toward the bathrooms, only for a mediwitch to flag him down. He raised his brows.

“Mr. Potter!”

Right. Disguise.

“Mmn?” he grunted as uncouthly as he could.

She looked at him strangely, then fixed the smile back on.

“I have good news and bad news!” she announced with false cheer. “The good news is the curse didn’t affect your sperm count. The bad news is that your genitals _do_ have a minor infection from some perfectly natural chafing. Lay off on the one-handed salute for two weeks, and you should be back in Quidditch shape!”

Only his years hiding a fugitive was to thank for his straight face.

Brilliant. Maybe he should run late on licenses more often.

 


End file.
